


Snowed Inn

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anna's Annual Christmas Fic, Childbirth, Christmas, M/M, Mpreg, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: “She’s not coming whilst we’re on holiday,” Sherlock insisted, and his tone brooked no argument. “I refuse to consider it. She’s staying put until we are safely back in London, and not a minute before. She’s waited four extra days, she can wait another two."





	Snowed Inn

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my annual Christmas fic. Enjoy, everyone! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you and yours!

Sherlock had almost forgotten about their holiday trip until he turned the wall calendar to December and saw the three days he’d blocked off - Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day. They had tickets booked for the train ride to and from their rented cottage in Wareham, and a receipt for the rental itself, which they’d booked more than a year in advance.

Sherlock went to his desk and ruffled around looking for the receipt and tickets and found that John had helpfully put all their documents in a folder, labeled ‘Christmas Holiday 2017.’ He pulled out the sheet of paper for their train tickets - ‘NON-REFUNDABLE’ in big bold black print on the bottom. That much he’d suspected. He found the printed sheet for their rented cottage and winced when he saw the same ‘NON-REFUNDABLE’ printed next to their deposit and subsequent full payment.

He sighed as he put all the papers away and back into their folder. “Well,” he said, looking down at his rounded stomach, “You’ll be coming with us one way or another, I suppose.”

John blanched when Sherlock handed him the folder. “I totally forgot,” he said, and cast a glance Sherlock’s way. “I don’t suppose any of that was -“

“Non-refundable. Tickets and the rental cottage,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “It’s all bought and paid for. We might as well go,” he said, and before John could argue, “She’s almost certainly going to be here by then, though she could still be inside me at that point. I hope to god not,” he said, a hand on his back. “But we put a lot of time, not to mention money, into planning that trip, and I’d like to enjoy it regardless. We can just enjoy it with a baby. Our first holiday as parents,” he said, and didn’t bother to hide the smile he felt at the idea.

“You’re going to be exhausted,” John said, rubbing his forehead. “Having a newborn baby isn’t an opportunity for much sleep.”

“All the more reason to go on holiday,” Sherlock replied cheerily, and took the folder back from John so he could tuck it safely away in his desk, lest John toss it into the crackling fire. “I’ll be just as exhausted in Wareham as I will be here, and you’ll be tired too. I really do think we’ll regret it if we don’t go,” he said, sitting carefully onto the couch and motioning for John to sit beside him.

John sank down next to Sherlock and watched as Sherlock’s belly shifted with the movement of their daughter inside him. “I suppose travelling with a newborn won’t be so awful,” he said, laying his hand on a particularly pointy bit of Sherlock’s belly. “And we have already paid for everything and made all our reservations. We can enjoy the trip. Get our little miss out and about and seeing the sights of Wareham, numerous as they are. Nothing like starting them young,” he said with a tired smile. “Alright, then. Let’s do it.”

 

“We were meant to be traveling with a newborn, you know,” Sherlock groused, bending down with effort to pick up a sock he’d dropped whilst packing. He straightened back up with a huff and watched as an elbow rippled down his broad side, a protest for being squashed. “If you were out here, where you’re meant to be, you wouldn’t be quite so cramped.” He tossed the sock in his suitcase and sat down heavily on the bed, catching his breath. “And mummy would be much happier and far less huge.”

The baby was four days past due. Her carrier and bassinet were in the corner of their bedroom awaiting their occupant’s arrival, and upstairs her nursery was stocked with baby clothes and nappies and hats and socks and everything else a baby could possibly need to be happy - all just waiting on the baby herself. But she was clearly happy where she was, still inside her mother, content to make him larger and larger until his own clothes no longer fit and he couldn’t tie his own shoes.

“You’re going to ruin our trip if you decide to come tomorrow, you know,” Sherlock told her, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “Even I don’t have the constitution to go on holiday the day after giving birth. You’ve waited this long, wait a few more days until we’re back home. Your father has nearly had a stroke worrying about what we’ll do if you come whilst we’re on holiday.” Sherlock, for his part, refused to consider it. They were going to go on holiday, celebrate Christmas, come home and _then_ have a baby. In that order. End of discussion.

He underestimated just how uncomfortable a train ride would be at forty weeks and five days pregnant.

“I need to pee,” Sherlock muttered, standing up and bracing himself against the slight rocking of the train car. John opened his mouth but a glare from Sherlock shut him up. “Yes, _again._ She’s huge and my bladder is not.” He stepped past John and out into the aisle, heading once more for the tiny toilet at the back of the train car. It was a tight squeeze when one wasn’t enormously pregnant, he thought, maneuvering into the little closet and closing the door behind himself. He hated the sigh of relief he let out, having made the same noise not forty minutes ago for the same reason, but felt marginally better once he was finished. They only had another thirty minutes to go before they reached Wareham, and Sherlock hoped that was the last trip he’d need to the loo until they got there.

John had moved to the window seat when Sherlock got back. He sank gratefully into the aisle seat, glad at least to not have to climb over John to get back to his place. He took John’s hand and laid it, palm-down, on his lower belly, where the baby was having hiccups. He smiled at John’s wide grin and quiet laughter, relaxing a little knowing they were close to their destination.

They had hired a rental car to get them from the train station to their cottage, which was about ten minutes outside of town on a rather twisty road. The isolation was beautiful, though - it had snowed a few days prior and the snow had still stuck around, blanketing the earth in a thick coat of white that muffled any noise. Sherlock watched out the window as John navigated the narrow road, admiring the quiet peace of their surroundings. Their cottage had a large green-and-red wreath on the front door, and with smoke puffing from the chimney, the little house did look very Christmassy. Sherlock said as much to John as they pulled in, and John agreed.

Inside, they had one bedroom, a rather large bath for the size of the house, and a smallish kitchen. The living room area had a sofa and a large, freshly-cut pine tree decorated with twinkling lights and shining bulbs. It filled the cottage with the smell of pine, and Sherlock could hardly wait to curl up on the deep sofa with a mug of hot cocoa and let John rub his feet. After their train ride, all Sherlock wanted was a good, long foot rub, perhaps a nap, and then dinner. In that order.

He got all three. “There’s several restaurants on this side of town, according to Google Maps,” John said, helping him put on and tie his shoes. Sherlock was still a bit muzzy from his nap, but he took John’s mobile and scrolled through the options. He snorted and handed it back.

“I don’t know why you even asked,” he said, rising with effort when John had finished doing up his laces. “All I’ve wanted for the past two months is Italian food, and that place has several outstanding reviews. We’re going there.” Sherlock rifled through his suitcase until he found a casual jacket to pull on over his shirt. It didn’t button - of course it didn’t - but it still made him feel a bit more dressed up than he would be otherwise. Fine for a “slightly upscale but casual Italian restaurant with authentic cuisine,” as one reviewer had written. He let John take his arm and kiss him on the cheek, and bundled himself into their rental car to go back into town.

The food was good. Everything on the menu had sounded appetizing, and Sherlock couldn’t choose one dish - thankfully, his very obvious condition played in his favor and the waiter had the chef prepare one plate with three different portions for Sherlock to sample. “We’re coming back tomorrow,” Sherlock said to John around a mouthful of mushroom ravioli. “I want as much of this as I can physically fit inside myself for as long as we’re here, because...” He stopped and looked around just to be sure. “This _might_ be better than Angelo’s.”

John’s eyes went wide and he made an impressed face. “It might be better than Angelo’s?” he said, reaching across the table to rap his knuckles on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock frowned. “Just checking to make sure that’s really you in there. I never thought I’d hear such blasphemy.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “It might not be _better_ than Angelo’s, I suppose,” he said, humming. “Perhaps it’s late pregnancy and cravings talking. But it’s very good nevertheless, and I want to try whatever it is you’re having when we come back tomorrow. No, I don’t want it _now,”_ he said, waving off John’s forkful. “I need room to finish this, and room for pasta is at a premium these days.”

“Suppose that’s true,” John said, and retracted his offered pasta to eat himself. Sherlock noticed that John suddenly looked a little concerned, and he huffed.

“She’s _not coming whilst we’re on holiday,_ ” he insisted, and his tone brooked no argument. “I refuse to consider it. She’s staying put until we are safely back in London, and not a minute before. She’s waited four extra days, she can wait another two. Oh, damn,” he cursed, and reached over to steal a forkful of John’s pasta. John let out an indignant noise and pulled his plate closer, frowning.

“I thought you said you didn’t want what I ordered until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and they won’t be open. We’ll have to order take-home portions tonight.” He paused to chew and swallow, and then smiled. “And I _definitely_ want some of that.”

 

John put their take-home portions of pasta in the fridge while Sherlock changed clothes. The milk for their hot cocoa was just starting to steam in the pot when Sherlock emerged from the bedroom in his pajamas, looking very cosy. John said as much and Sherlock smiled, giving John an indulgent kiss on the cheek and leaning back against the counter.

“Lucky thing, ordering a size too big,” he said, glancing down at his shirt. He’d conceded to one pair of holiday maternity pajamas, and even he had to admit they were rather festive. His shirt was white and long-sleeved with a big green wreath over his belly. The pants were flannel and soft and probably the most comfortable thing Sherlock owned right now, with a very forgiving and overlarge elastic waistband that just managed to stay in place where he put it.

“You look very Christmassy,” John said, smoothing Sherlock’s shirt down over his full belly. His hands cupped the bottom of it, gently holding it. Things felt very peaceful suddenly, and Sherlock was unwilling to break the quiet. He closed his eyes and made a soft noise, putting his hands next to John’s and holding their daughter. She was asleep and still inside him, just waiting until she was ready to come meet them.

The boiling of the milk was what eventually brought them out of their quiet, and Sherlock took his mug of cocoa from John and swayed into the sitting room, settling carefully onto the sofa. He waited until John was sat down next to him before shifting to put his feet in John’s lap, and he put his mug on his belly and waited for it to cool. “I rather feel like listening to some Christmas music,” he said, watching curls of steam rise from their mugs. The lights on the Christmas tree caught in the reflection of his cocoa and he looked out through the bay window at the white blanket of snow that coated the earth. “I’m very glad we decided to go,” he added, catching John’s eye and smiling. “Might be the last time we get to spend a holiday to ourselves for some time.”

John smiled back and set his mug aside to rub Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock nearly purred. “I’m glad we went, too. We needed a bit of time to ourselves, and I don’t think I’ve ever spent Christmas anywhere this pretty and peaceful.”

“It’s snowing,” Sherlock said, watching as flurries fell outside the window. “You know, if I weren’t so enormously pregnant, I think I’d like to take a walk in that snow, but as it stands I’m much happier being off my feet and inside where it’s warm.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” John laughed. He pulled up a Christmas music soundtrack on his mobile and hit play, then set it aside to return to Sherlock’s foot rub. “I’m pretty happy inside, too. Nice to have a quiet, relaxed evening while on holiday.”

Sherlock let out a noise very close to a moan when John rubbed his arches. “Remind me of how good this feels in about a month,” he said, his eyes falling shut. “I’ll suck you off as belated thanks.”

John laughed heartily. “Merry Christmas to me.”

 

According to the sheet their rental host had tacked onto their fridge, there was a Christmas Eve lunch at a cafe in town the next day, and a Christmas cookie tasting at the local town hall. “Everyone invited,” was what the paper said, and after double-checking the town’s website to confirm, John and Sherlock decided they would attend.

The lunch was hearty soups and sandwiches - filling enough to be satisfying and warm, but not too heavy. Sherlock managed to finish most of his, and John polished off what Sherlock couldn’t fit. The cafe was cheery and cosy, and Sherlock didn’t even feel the need to deduce any secrets about their waitress or the locals. They finished with about an hour to spare before the cookie tasting, and decided to take a walk around the town.

Sherlock held John’s gloved hand in his own and set the pace for their walk. It was more of a slow amble than a walk, but between his pronounced waddle and the slightly slippery sidewalks, it was all the faster he could go. “She’s starting to feel very low,” he said, stopping at a crosswalk and rubbing his lower belly waiting for the light to turn. “I think she might have dropped a bit overnight. I feel fine,” he said right away to fend off any of John’s worries. “Light’s turned. I was just keeping you informed.” He tugged John out into the crosswalk.

“Sorry. I just keep forgetting you’re overdue, and then you remind me, and then it’s a new fresh wave of panic worrying about when you might go into labor. It’s not as though it’s an _unreasonable_ worry,” he said, slightly cross.

“No, it’s not unreasonable,” Sherlock admitted. “But realistically, if she hasn’t come yet and she’s just now started to drop, she probably won’t come for at least a few more days. And there is a medical emergency centre here, which I know _you_ know because I know you called them.”

At that, John did look a little sheepish. “Yes, well. If she decided she wanted to arrive while we were on holiday, I wanted to at least know they would be able to take you in. The nurse thought we were insane for going on holiday when you’re past due, and I honestly had no argument.” John offered Sherlock a little grin. “I would say this isn’t the most insane thing we’ve done, really, though it probably ranks pretty high.”

“I’m sure in a year we’ll look back at this and wonder why in the hell we did it,” Sherlock agreed, and looked at John, and they both started laughing until they had to sit down to catch their breaths.

The cookie tasting was a good way to spend the afternoon, though by the time they were finished, Sherlock’s back was starting to ache fiercely. He turned on the heated seats in their rental car and was glad for the relief the heat provided, and by the time they made it back to their cottage, he was feeling better. “I’m in for a nap,” Sherlock said, kicking off his shoes and heading for their bedroom. “I’m entitled to an afternoon of laziness on Christmas Eve. I’m nearly forty-one weeks pregnant and just spent the majority of my day out and about on holiday.”

“You are definitely entitled to an afternoon of laziness, and I think I’ll join you,” John said, following Sherlock and toeing off his own shoes. The cottage was delightfully warm after the chill outside, and with snow falling thick outside, it was just the right atmosphere for an afternoon nap.

“We’re going to have a very white Christmas,” Sherlock said, taking off his jeans and shirt and changing into his pajamas.

“Yeah, we definitely are,” John agreed, looking out their bedroom window. “Really pretty, though.” John stopped Sherlock before he could put his shirt on. Sherlock stood still while John put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s overlarge bump, tracing the purple lines on his belly with his fingers. Every part of Sherlock’s body was clearly ready for motherhood - his belly was full and heavy and round with their daughter, his breasts puffy and sore and starting to fill, too. His hips had widened until his gait was a slow swaying waddle. “You’re really pretty, too, you know,” he said softly.

“I am not,” Sherlock scoffed, but his cheeks colored in a blush anyway. His expression softened into a smile and he put his hands on John’s, holding his belly for a few moments. “I’m ready to meet her,” he said, and John nodded.

“Me, too. But wait just a few more days, love, until we’re home. You’ll have to wait until next year to spend your first official Christmas with mum and dad, little one.” John bent down and kissed Sherlock’s belly and then helped him into his shirt. Sherlock laid down and John curled up behind him, kissing the back of his neck, and in a few minutes they were both asleep.

 

Sherlock awoke to the sound of a kettle boiling a few hours later. He sat up and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, then winced at a dull pain in his back. He groaned when he got up and made a quick stop to the toilet on his way out to the kitchen, where John was waiting with two cups of tea. “Back hurts,” Sherlock sighed, sitting down gingerly on a chair. He took a sip of his tea.

“We did a lot of walking around earlier,” John reasoned, and Sherlock nodded. John sat his own mug down on the kitchen island and walked around behind Sherlock, rucking up his shirt to rub his lower back. Sherlock made a pained noise but allowed John to work at his sore muscles, knowing that John wasn’t going to make it worse. He felt a little better after a few minutes, but there was only so much relief he could get, at this stage. He resumed drinking his tea while John tried to find something to watch on the television.

“The signal is really poor,” John said, flicking through another channel that was half static. “Cell service is bad, too. It’s still snowing out, I think it must be interfering with the signal.”

Sherlock got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “That’s not good,” he said carefully, turning around to face John.

John looked up straightaway and narrowed his eyes. “What is it?” he said pointedly.

“Nothing!” Sherlock said quickly. “Nothing, it’s just that I don’t much like the idea of being stranded with no cell signal in an unfamiliar place _anytime,_ let alone now. But I’m sure it will be fine.”

John’s eyes narrowed a little more and he stared at Sherlock. “Fine,” he said at last, clearly still suspicious. “You had better not go into labor.”

Sherlock squawked. “Even if I _do,_ it won’t be _my_ fault. I’m not calling the shots here, she is. But I’m not in labor,” he said definitively. “And I won’t be until we’re safe back in London, even if I have to hold her in by myself.” John made an affirmative noise and put a DVD in the player, abandoning the fading TV signal.

 

Sherlock awoke to dead silence and a fierce cramp in his lower back. It was 2:12 in the morning according to his mobile. He kept his breathing steady and let the cramp ride out before very carefully getting up out of bed and heading for the loo.

“No,” he said firmly, staring at his belly as he sat on the toilet. “Absolutely not. I flatly refuse to be in labor with you right now, so cut it out if that’s what you’re thinking of doing.”

He washed his hands and went back to bed, staring determinedly at the back of John’s neck until he fell asleep again.

He woke up once more at 2:31, and again at 2:53. “No,” he informed his middle, getting up again to go walk through the cottage. He glanced outside - still snowing, with snow as far as the eye could see. He was about to go back to bed after another nasty cramp at 3:13 when John emerged from the bedroom and stared him down.

“No,” John said plainly.

“That’s what _I_ told her,” Sherlock said, throwing his arms up in defeat. “I told her no, and you told her no, so I’m hoping that I’m just having back pain. Very regular, localised back pain.”

John rolled his eyes and turned the kettle on. “I don’t suppose you’ve been keeping track of your very regular, localised back pain,” he said conversationally.

“About twenty minutes between,” Sherlock said, and winced at John’s sigh.

“Only you would go into labor when we’re on holiday, on Christmas Day to boot.” John dropped a tea bag in each mug as the water started to boil.

“It’s _not me,_ ” Sherlock insisted, “It’s _her_! She’s the one who decided to inconvenience us. I had no say in the matter.”

John handed him a mug of steeping tea. “You’re going to drink that, and we’re going to go back to bed, and I’m going to time your bloody back pains until we decide if the thing that isn’t happening is actually happening.” Sherlock wearily agreed and took his tea.

At around 4:30 in the morning they decided that this was indeed actually happening. John went to call the emergency medical centre only to find that he had no cell signal, and the home phone line wasn’t working, either. “We’ll leave as soon as the roads are cleared,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s back. “I don’t mind if we’re in for longer than we need to be, I’d just rather have you in hospital than stranded out here.”

John kept an eye out for the snow plows, but by six in the morning they still hadn’t come. Sherlock was still sleeping between contractions as best he could, but the time between them was starting to decrease and it was getting harder and harder to fall back asleep. Finally, the sun rose and Sherlock decided to abandon the idea of sleep for now. “Happy Christmas,” he said, sitting very delicately on a chair and wincing at his sore back. John’s tight expression relaxed and he gathered Sherlock into his arms, kissing his temple.

“Happy Christmas,” he replied, his hands warm on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I think it’s stopped snowing, so hopefully the plows will be out soon and we can go into town.”

Sherlock nodded his agreement and sighed, leaning into John. “I’m tired,” he mumbled. “And it hurts. My lower back is a shambles.”

“Lot of muscles there doing some pretty hard work,” John sympathised, kissing Sherlock’s crown and sliding one hand down to his lower back to knead at the tight muscles. “It’s alright, love. It’s not ideal, but it’s going to be fine. You’re going to be alright, and so will she.”

Sherlock looked up at John and managed a smile. “Thank you,” he said, kissing John’s wrist.

“You’re welcome. You focus on what you need to stay comfortable, and I’ll handle the rest.” John gave a last pat to Sherlock’s back and went outside to try and get cell service.

The plows still hadn’t made it out by mid-morning, and Sherlock was beginning to think these back roads were not high on the town’s priority list. His contractions had gotten harder and closer together, and he’d taken to pacing the length of the cottage just to keep his muscles loose. As another contraction built, Sherlock leant against the hallway wall, groaning through the pain. John was there with him in a moment, pressing his hands on Sherlock’s lower back and coaching him. “We need to get to the medical centre,” Sherlock rasped when it was done, leaving him weak and shaking.

John ran a hand through his hair and looked worried. “I’m not sure it’s driveable out there,” he said. “We got a _lot_ of snow last night, Sherlock. The car’s half-buried, and the roads were hilly on the way in. I’m nervous to try and drive to town only to get stuck partway there...we’re not in great shape here, but we’d be worse off stranded on the road.”

Sherlock cursed. John was right. As worrying as it was to be alone in this house in labor, they would be at much more risk if they drove and got stuck on a back road. “Send a text,” Sherlock said at last. “From your mobile, and mine. To Mycroft, or anyone else you can think of. Tell them where we are and what’s happening. When we get a signal, the texts will send, and whoever gets them can call an ambulance for us. Or something. It’s the best we can do,” he said, and then paused for a minute. “Actually, there’s one other thing we can do.”

“What’s that?” John asked, curious.

 

John stomped back into the house, red-faced and cold with his pantlegs soaked up to the knee. Sherlock had gleaned no small amount of glee from watching John traipse through the yard with calculated precision, working from left to right.

If anyone in a low-flying plane or helicopter happened to fly overhead, they would notice ten-foot-tall letters that read:

HELP!

IN LABOR

“If that’s what saves our hides, I’ll forgive you, but otherwise you owe me bigtime,” John said, sniffling and stripping off his wet trousers. Sherlock laughed until his belly ached.

 

By noon, Sherlock was well into his labor. His contractions were eight minutes apart at most, and he was quiet most of the time, save for noises of pain during contractions. “Tell me you have something stronger than paracetamol for pain,” he said roughly, leaning against the back of the sofa and catching his breath.

John shook his head. “That’s all I’ve got. I checked the cupboards here - nothing stronger anywhere. I’ll let you have a little bigger dose, but that’s all I can do. Would a bath or shower help?” he asked, shaking out two pills and cracking a third in half. He handed them to Sherlock, who swallowed them dry.

“It won’t hurt,” Sherlock said, and wrenched himself upright. He gasped at the pain of doing so and reached out for John. “Jesus. It must be counterproductive to have muscles get so tight when one is trying to shove an infant out of one’s body,” he groaned, letting John help him into the shower.

“The muscles that need to be loose are getting loose,” John assured, turning on the shower and letting it run until it was hot. “Everything else takes second place, so far as your body’s concerned. The hot water should help with some of that, though.”

Sherlock stood under the spray until the hot water started to run out. Blessedly, he’d had about forty minutes of relief from the shower. “I think I want to have her in the tub,” he said, gesturing to the claw-footed tub on the other side of the bath. “The water helped. And it’ll be easier to clean a tub than anywhere else in the house.”

“Hot water should be built back up by the time you’re ready to push,” John said, nodding in agreement. “Things will keep moving faster if you’re up walking, though.”

Sherlock nodded in reply and let John help him towel off. He looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror. His full, stretched belly was very low now, and he could feel the baby stretched out inside him, as opposed to being curled up as she had been just the day before. He felt a pressure between his hips, too, which he knew had to be her head pressing down. He rubbed at the ache in his pelvis and let out a long breath, meeting John’s gaze in the mirror. “She’s almost here,” he said, his voice tired.

“Almost.” John kissed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Just a little bit to go. Stay strong, love.”

 

The hours dragged on. The time between Sherlock’s contractions became steadily shorter, while the spasms themselves lasted longer and longer. He had another shower once the hot water re-filled, and a bath later on. While waiting for more hot water, Sherlock was alternately pacing the hallway and squatting deeply through contractions. He’d started moaning lowly through each one some time ago - something about the long, low noises resonated with his body and gave him some relief.

John was testing the hot water when another contraction came on, followed by the unmistakeable sound of spilled water and an abrupt change in Sherlock’s tone. When John rushed out into the hallway he found Sherlock in a deep squat, his back arched and a panicked look in his eyes as a puddle slowly spread on the tile floor. John kissed Sherlock’s sweaty temple and ran to grab a towel, dropping it between Sherlock’s legs. He kneaded Sherlock’s shoulders until Sherlock sagged forward, and then helped him stand and wiped the fluid from his thighs.

“Close,” was all Sherlock said. John nodded, hugged Sherlock tight, and led him up and down the hallway until the next contraction came.

It was just beginning to get dark outside when Sherlock squatted clumsily for another contraction. This time, he didn’t make any noise, just breathed harshly and shook hard enough for John to feel. It took a moment for John to figure out what was happening, but he gasped when he realised that Sherlock was pushing. “That’s it,” John said, dropping to his knees next to Sherlock and rubbing his shoulder. “That’s it, she’s coming. She’s on her way.”

Sherlock felt the pressure in his body changing and moving down and responded in the only way his body knew how. He bore down hard, finally working with his body instead of fighting the pain. His strength was flagging now, after more than twelve hours of labor, but this was the home stretch. “Bath,” he said roughly once the contraction was over. “Need the hot water.” John nodded and left him to put the plug in the tub and turn the water on.

Sherlock could hardly walk the twelve feet from the hallway to the tub. Climbing inside was an even bigger battle. The baby’s head was so low in his pelvis that lifting each leg to get into the tub made his hips grind tight in their sockets, sending ribbons of pain up Sherlock’s spine and down his thighs. He sank into the hot water with a long groan of relief and pressed his legs tight against the walls of the tub. Somehow, the pressure of that relieved some of the pressure in his pelvis, and he kept the position to let his body open, to let their daughter through.

It was only another minute until the next contraction came, as strong as the last. He tucked his chin to his chest and grunted, curling his spine and shoving hard. He felt her move, this time, felt her body shifting within him. He stopped when John told him to, before the contraction was quite over, and fought with trembling effort to keep from pushing again.

John’s words were distant and muffled in his ears, but John’s hand on his cheek guided him to look up. John looked so worried - so tired, and so worried for them both. Sherlock didn’t have the ability to worry right now - his task was much more arduous than that. He kissed John’s wrist and put his hand low on his belly, pressing it into the taut skin with his own hand on top. “Almost here,” he breathed, and watched as John’s eyes lit up with hope.

“You,” John said, swiping at a tear, “Are the strongest man I have ever met, and you’re so close. Keep going, love. Our daughter’s so close.”

Sherlock smiled, wide and tired, and pushed when the next contraction came.

After a few more hard pushes, Sherlock began to feel a burning pain and the desire to open his legs even wider. The tub constrained his movements but even without the ability to open any wider, he felt the burning pain increase in intensity until he shouted and tried to writhe away.

“Careful! Careful, Sherlock, she’s crowning,” John said, and gentled Sherlock’s movements by squeezing his hand. He took Sherlock’s other hand, his left one, and guided it low, between his legs, and Sherlock’s fingers brushed against something warm and firm that was not his own flesh. He choked out a noise that sounded very much like a sob and pressed his fingers against their daughter’s head, slick and soft and emerging from his body.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, tears streaking his hot cheeks. He stared at the ceiling and touched their daughter’s head. He was very still until another contraction came and he pushed again, letting himself shout again as the burning pain got worse and worse until it peaked and then subsided, and the hand that had been brushing his daughter’s head now cradled it. He looked at John with awe and worry, his fingers fumbling, until John reached down and breathed a sigh of relief and said, “No cord. Keep pushing, she is - god, Sherlock, she is _almost_ here.”

“Almost here,” Sherlock echoed, his voice raw, and another contraction came and he bore down again.

He let John count during his contractions but paid him no mind, and pushed as long and as hard as he could. The baby’s body turned in the birth canal until her shoulders lined up with his pelvis, and suddenly it was easier to push. He felt her body move centimeter by centimeter as he shoved, felt her shoulders breach him and then one more push and he bent forward around his belly, reaching down instinctually to take her by the shoulders.

Her body moved outward just a little more and then Sherlock was _holding_ her in his hands; he pulled her out and up and laid her on his swollen belly where she’d been only moments before and she opened her mouth wide and sucked in a big breath and cried so loud for them that Sherlock started crying too.

“Oh my god,” came John’s voice, thick with tears. His hand was on her head, cradling it next to Sherlock’s, touching their baby daughter. “Oh my god, Sherlock, _you did it._ ” He felt John’s lips brush his forehead and then lean against him. “You just had a _baby._ ”

She was heavy on his belly. A little purple, and very wet, but save for a few streaks of blood on her head and shoulders and tummy, she was clean. She had a few wisps of dark hair stuck to the very top of her head. Sherlock took her little hand, waving angrily in the air, and she clutched his finger tight. “Ten fingers,” he said wetly, “And ten toes.”

“She looks _perfect,”_ John said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I need to find - scissors. Or something. I’ll be right back.” He pressed another long kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, unable to stop staring at their daughter, and then tore himself away to go find some medical supplies somewhere.

“Sweet girl,” Sherlock murmured, dipping his hand in the water and cleaning off a streak of blood from her head. “Hello, my darling. It’s so good to meet you, at last.”

John returned a few minutes later with a pair of gloves and a disposable scalpel - he’d found an emergency medical kit in a kitchen cupboard. “Not well-stocked, but it’ll do. I’ll tie her off with some gauze and then use the scalpel for the cord,” he said, cutting a length of gauze from the roll and tying off her umbilical cord in two places. She started to pink up as soon as the cord was cut, and her cries gradually quieted until she was resting peacefully on Sherlock’s belly, halfway in the still-warm water.

John sat down next to the tub, one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, watching their daughter sleep. “I can’t believe you did that,” he said, shaking his head and speaking quietly, not wanting to wake the baby. “You just delivered our daughter in the tub of a rental cottage in Wareham on Christmas Day. I think I remember saying that this trip wasn’t the craziest thing we’ve ever done...but I think I was wrong.”

“I mean, we couldn’t have known that she would decide to come on Christmas,” Sherlock argued. “She could just as easily have waited until we were back in London, but clearly she had other plans.”

John rolled his eyes. “A Holmes child through and through.”

An hour later, Sherlock was bundled in bed and so was the baby, freshly named Evelyn Rose. They’d had to make do for a nappy and John had had to double-bag the afterbirth and set it outside to keep cold, but other than that, it had been surprisingly easy to clean up all evidence of having birthed a child in their rental cottage.

Sherlock had just settled Evelyn on his chest when his mobile and John’s suddenly chirped with an apparent backlog of calls and text messages. John sighed and went to pick both devices up, and immediately returned Mycroft’s call to explain the situation. “Happy Christmas, Uncle Mycroft,” he said with a grin, and heard a racket from his mother and father shouting over Mycroft on the other end of the line.

The roads would be cleared within the hour, they were assured, and an ambulance would be following the snow plow to fetch them all and take them to the medical centre. For now, Sherlock let Evelyn sleep on his chest and watched the gentle snow fall outside. “I suppose you got to spend Christmas with mummy and daddy after all,” he murmured to their daughter, and placed a gentle kiss on her sleeping head.


End file.
